


Wolves and Wings

by skyfallat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Winglock, Wolfjohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfallat221b/pseuds/skyfallat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how a Winged - Sherlock - and a Wolf - John - met each other through the W&W organisation. (Wing!lock & Wolf!John)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what ended up being a very long adventure on Omegle last summer, rewritten in Fanfiction form. (You'll notice the Omegle back and forth adventuring in the beginning, but I'll try to rewrite it as a fiction best I can with time).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was a strange thing. Of course, it was common that Weres usually got a Winged to look after them. It was protocol. But, he had come home from the war and hadn't been following protocol most of the time, so, he didn't feel all too confident that a stranger assigned to « monitor » him on full moon nights would be something he could or would enjoy. Still. He had gotten a mobile phone number in the file which had been sent to him. A phone number to which he sent a text, sitting on his bed in his empty flat.

_Is this Sherlock Holmes ? - JW_

* * *

While taking care of a small burn on his left wing, Sherlock heard his mobile beep. He had been in the middle of an experiment. He really needed to be more careful, spilling hydrogen on his wing like that. Frowning, he gazed at the device.

_Yes, it is. Who's this ? SH_

* * *

_This is John Watson. I got your number through the W &W Institution. - JW_

The W&W Institution – Wing and Were Institution – was the part of the Government who took care of handling the pairings. They were said to look through files, trying to pair a Winged with a Were through common interests and such, but it was common knowledge that, most of the time, they put each of the W's together at random : too many files to handle.

John hoped, secretly, that this Sherlock fellow had gotten his file sent to him too – sometimes, the W&W didn't even bother to send them out, and blaimed the post for losing them. It had been a scandal when a television show had gone undercover at the W&W Institution to see how things were delt with. Of course, there had been a huge campain to clean up the mess that television documentary had created, but now, everybody knew that the W&W was flawed. But things still kept going on, after all. The system was made that way, and even though there had been a few strikes to protest, they had died out, and the W&W had been able to keep on doing their thing, with no bother.

_You've been assigned as my monitor for the foreseeable future ? - JW_

* * *

_You're my new charge then ? I believe I have your file in here somewhere. SH_

Let's be honest. Sherlock couldn't be half-arsed to look at the file. It was right there, but reading it was boring. The only reason he was in the program in the first place was because his insufferable brother /made/ him do so. He couldn't care less, to be honest. Having a Wolf to take care of. A wolf. The more common name for the Weres', since they did turn into huge wolves. Just as normal humans being called Barebacks rather than Nons'. It was a pejorative word, but he didn't care. They were just wolves, and, mostly, they were idiot brainless dogs with no regard or respect whatsoever for their mentors. The only thing said mentors had to do was to make sure the wolves didn't eat each other, didn't kill other wolves, and didn't mate while they were changed. It was made easier by the accomodations the W&W had made legal and obligatory in most houses.

* * *

_Yes. Can we meet ? - JW_

He had the file. That was something. But, still, he had to be sure his mentor would be a good one. After all, he'd been a soldier, and some Winged would rather avoid having a soldier wolf in their houses – not knowing what the army used the Weres to. He thought, if this Sherlock fellow was going to be the one to look after him on fullmoons and making sure that he didn't eat anybody, he might as well get to know him. Sure, he'd read Sherlock's file – an odd one, they'd paired him with an odd one – but he wanted to get to know him. After all, he was going to place his own body and mind in Sherlock's hands on fullmoons nights. And, he hadn't seen anybody else but the W&W folks and his drunk sister since he had been invalidated home from the Middle East.

* * *

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the text. He wasn't very keen in leaving home with his experiments half done. But, when he thought of it, he had already ruined this one, and a little air wasn't going to do him any harm, was it ? He finished patching up his wing and waved them a little to get the circulation going.

_Meet me at 7 pm. The address is 22 Northumberland Street. The place is called Angelo's. SH_

* * *

At the lack of immediate answer – as the previous ones had been immediate, or at least very fast – John sighed. Maybe it had been a bad idea. He rolled his shoulders thinking about the meeting to come. Most Weres met their Winged once or twice before their first moon together, and never got to know each other personally. Why did he want to meet this Sherlock Holmes anyway ? It said on his file he was a sociopath. His shoulders were aching from the last full moon : he'd spent it in the cage at the W&W headquarters, since he hadn't gotten a mentor appointed until now. And, that had gone rather poorly, putting a giant wolf in a silver cage.

However, when the answer came, he let out a sigh of relief.

_Perfect. See you then. - JW_

Maybe... Maybe this was a bad idea. He know of people who were good friends with their tutors – Mike Stamford was one of them – some living together, and he'd even met a couple where she was Winged and he was Were, but most of the time, both parts just met those single full moon nights and never spoke in the regular daytime. Some Winged acted as if their Weres were a secret shame, and it even went down to playing a part in a social context. Who was in the W&W programme was a big discussion in television, but stayed mostly taboo in the lower classes.

John looked at his watch and noticed there was an hour to go. He got dressed, and decided to walk to the address Sherlock had given him. He couldn't really afford a taxi, and walking a bit would help him get over the aching in his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are more than welcome :)  
> Some of you may notice that it's the same fic as on FF.net, but I'm just reposting it here too, as it's easier to find on AO3 (and I got my all new shiny AO3 account today too!)  
> (18/03/2014)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Digs a little bit further into the story :)

Looking around at the mess in his flat, Sherlock sighed. He gave a try at cleaning it up abit, just un case his charge – no, John Watson – wanted to visit and check on the Wolfing room, although it didn't seem very probable. Because all Winged who were in the W&W tutoring programme had to have an accomodation that could receive the Were when it morphed out.

It was lost in thought that he called Angelo's and reserved them a table before going to his room and changing to something more comfortable. He did his best to tuck his wings close to his body without hurting the injured one too much. Half an hour later, he was leaving home, walking slowly to the restaurant. He knew it was early, but Angelo always had crusty news about the underworld. Mysterious cases that the police never heard about, for one. And, second, he always liked a chat with him before dinner.

* * *

John's back was aching from the previous change – one week earlier. He'd stayed in the little flat the W&W had allowed him, but he hadn't taken care of himself that much. A slight limp was plaguing him, so walking had become quite a challenge. Worst part was that it had appeared after the last mooning, where one of the W&W staff had thought it would calm him down to hit him on the leg, while he was in the cage. According to the rapport that had been made after the mooning, it had been to calm him down. However, when he'd seen the footage, it had been clear that the staff had only tried to infuriate the wolf more – often, military wolves were more aggressive than the civilian ones. A challenge, for some of the W&W staff. But, as usual, since the W&W was working on its own part and with its own rules, he hadn't been able to do anything about it. Any injury sustained during wolf form stayed when he morphed back into his human form.

Pushing the door to the restaurant, he looked around, and spotted the black curly hair he'd seen on the file. Walking up to him, he smiled at the man, putting his hand forward. « I'm John Watson, nice to meet you, » he stated, still smiling. He'd seen this Sherlock's file, and although he didn't seem like a usual person, he thought it couldn't hurt to treat him as if he was a regular nobody.

* * *

Looking up, Sherlock stared at this John for a few seconds. Having not bothered to look at the file, he didn't know what he was like. Standing up, he finally shook the hand given out, firmly. « Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you, » he nodded and gestured to the chair, at which John sat after having gotten his hand back. « Please, make yourself comfortable. »

John bit his lower lip, and smiled shyly back at Sherlock. « It's a... a nice place, » he stated, looking around. He had never been there before. And if he had, he couldn't remember it. He'd been in the Middle East long enough for a few places to have changed hands, but from what he saw, he could see that it was a restaurant which had been there for a while. Maybe he'd just never noticed it.

Angelo approached them, slapping Sherlock's back. A wince came from his lips, since he'd hit the injured wing as if there had been a bullseye on it. « So, Sherlock, I see your date is here. Can I bring you the menus ? » he asked, similing widely. John frowned at the date remark, but Sherlock answered before he could say anything.

« Do you want to order ? » he asked John with a small not, as he moved uncomfortably in his seat, trying to get some distance from the hand and his back. Before John answered, he spoke firmly, « I'm not his date... I'm his... uhm... He's my tutor, » he got out. Weres were less common than wings, and were seen as a 'lower' part of society. Being a wolve was hereditary – he'd always been one and knew what this meant, but he was  _not_  Sherlock's date. He smiled weakly at Angelo to ease the tension. « I'll just have the carbonara... » He then looked back at Sherlock who did, after all, not seem too odd. He didn't seem like the sociopathic type.

Angelo smiled widely back at John. « Carbonara it is then. And, I'll bring you a candle, just to help setting the mood, » he smiled again, and walked back to the kitchen. John's jaw dropped at the comment. Hadn't he heard that he wasn't Sherlock's date ? What was it with the candle ? What mood ? Shaking his head, John looked down, whereas Sherlock was, on his side, looking back at him, he trying to identify every single detail. « You need a place to stay, » he stated, quirking an eyebrow.

« Erh, yeah. W&W are paying for a little flat, but it's not... really... nice. It's not really nice, » he said as his gaze turned to Sherlock. « How did you know ? » Oh. Stupid question, he realised. Sherlock had probably read the file the W&W had given him. However, that wasn't the answer that came to him.

« Silver burns on your left arm, » Sherlock said as Angelo came back with the candle, clapping him on the back again, making his teeth clench in pain. « You were on the W&W care all this time. The cage they put you in was obviously too small for you. They assumed that because you are short as a man, you wouldn't be big as a wolf. Obviously, they were wrong, since all male wolves tend to be bigger during the moons, » he shifted uncomfortably, his wing hurting him under his clothing. Damned Angelo. « I'm in need for a flatmate, » he added after a moment. « As soon as I got into the program, my brother made sure to wolf-proof the house, so all the doors and windows are sealed with silver. »

« Oh. » It was all John could manage at Sherlock's answer. Then, he raised his eyebrows, surprised. « Are you... Oh. Well, I... Why not ? » he finally chuckled, before looking at Angelo who had walked away after bringing them the candle.  _WHY_  the candle ?!

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head head slightly to the side, gazing at John with a curious look. « If you have a problem sharing a flat with one of my kind, please do feel free to turn down the invitation. » He looked up as Angelo came back from the kitchen with the plate and put it in front of John. « Thank you, Angelo, » he smiled, barely dodging the next clap on the back. He was seriously considering cutting the man's hand off and experiment on it. John noticed the lack of a second plate. « Don't you... eat ? » He felt it was a stupid question, but he asked it nonetheless.

Nonchalantly answering the question, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table and looked out of the window to the moving street outside.

« I never eat while working. I need the brain free to think and digestion slows me down. » John nodded at the answer, thinking it odd, and remembering the flat issue. « And, no... I don't have any problems with sharing a flat with you, » he started, « it just came as a surprise, » he said, gazing up again. And, also, if there was to be a problem, the normal hierarchy would be Wing Bareback Wolf. So, the problem should be from Sherlock's perspective, not the other way around. But he had been the one to make the proposition, so... Why not ?

« So, tell me about you. » Sherlock looked at John again, knowing that everything he needed to know was in the file the W&W had given him. However, he decided to ask nonetheless. John began to eat – he was famished, after all, he had only eaten an apple as breakfast that day – and answered between two mouthfuls : « I was in the army, a doctor, » he said, pausing. Should he say he was sent home because he'd been injured in a moon-fight with a taleban wolf ? Probably not. Still. « Sent home 3 months ago, and here I am, » he said, with a faint smile. He'd seen some of the security footage some of the barebacks had filmed during the encounter, but didn't like thinking back at it. The scars on his chest were enough memories. However, Sherlock's response to his recent life story unsettled him.

« I'd like to take a look at the bite mark on your left shoulder, the one that cause your discharge, » Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. Before continuing, cutting all chances of John saying anything short, « Also, I was working on something today, before you texted me. It's still an initial phase, but if it goes successfully, it might delay the effects of the moon on the wolves. If it goes  _really_  good, it might even perserve enough of the man to bring them to reason and keep them from attacking random people. »

John had stopped chewing when Sherlock mentioned the bite mark, and had looked up, swallowing with a little difficulty. He put down his fork, staring at the man opposite him. Was he actually serious about all... this ? « Better than the wolfbane tablets ? » he asked, frowning, not too sure on how to take it. Sherlock furrowed his brows as a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna go a bit quick with the publishing as the first 9 chapters are already up on FF.net, so I'm just adding here slowly, building up my profil here :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just the usual, I wish they belonged to me but they don't. Just the AU :)

« What do wolfbane tablets do other than calm the wolf down a bit ? Think of it as a... » he rolled the eyes at the word, but it was the first one that came up to his mind, « … potion. The tablets taste horrible in the first place. With a liquid solution, you can mix it into any drink or food you want for the three days preceding the moon and it will have a stronger effect. The crux of the question is that the wolves would only be listening to one command voice, and that of their mentors. Some don't approve of it, but if you were willing to give it a try... »

John stopped thinking about food almost immediatly. Wolfbane tablets would do that to you if you were a wolf. « Duh, » was the only sound he was able to make, rubbing his hands against his eyes. « Ehm... Why uhm... Why not ? » he shook his head while frowning. « But... I mean, I was in the  _army,_ » he stated again, « Wolf shifts and everything, » he then said, matter-of-factly, still slightly worried. « Or do they not tell this to civilians ? » he asked, not too sure, gritting his teeth.

« John, I said this is a new project I'm working on. Independent from the government. Not many people know about it. About three or four, including you, » Sherlock said, closing his eyes, his wing burning again, now. He should have stopped being lazy and applied that ointment Mrs. Hudson had given him.

« I do it because I thorougly believe that it will give the wolves some peace of mind during the moons. It's a small independent project, and I'd like to keep it that way. The government likes to have you under their power, to be able to control you. So they throw chocolate tablets at you and that it'll make you feel better, when in the end, it makes no difference. I belive you have just as much right to some freedom as we have, » he shrugged. « Even if in the full moon night, you'll only be linked to your mentor, it's the best I can do. Illegal, yes, definitely. But I know that it will work. »

Silence fell slightly. John looked down, but not at his food. He became distant. Stupid government. He'd thought joining the army would do some good, but instead, he and other wolves were kept as fighting dogs for the fullmoon shifts. Same went for the taleban wolves, but still. It's one thing they didn't mention when you wanted to join. Sure, he worked as a doctor whenever the full moon was far away, but as soon as they morphed into the wolf... They got sent in to do the dirty job. They got sent in to fight other wolves, like dogs fight when they're put in a dog fight. All those scars on his body came from bites and claws. And then, he got sent home because of an injury sustained during one of the moon shifts.

« Alright, » John simply said, looking Sherlock right in the eye. « If you need a test subject... I suppose, I can do that. » He shrugged as well. « I have an army pension, I don't have anything else to do, » he stated. Might as well try to get something out of this situation.

Sherlock's lips quirked in a smile. « Thank you, » he nodded at him. He was doing this for them. To rid them of the strings that the government had tied them with, keeping them low in the civilisational hierarchy. Sherlock sighed. He knew it wasn't common for a Winged to care about the Wolves in general, but he never cared much about his position. He never saw difference between them and the wolves, to be honest. Cut off the wings, eclipse the moon, what were they ? Just two people, as normal as any other... And this wolf repression was seriously getting on his nerves.

« You know... they suppress you because they fear you. Why is my experiment so illegal ? Because if the wolves decide to unite and start a rebellion, you will undoubtedly win. You have more allies than you could ever imagine. » John chuckled at Sherlock's rebellion remark.

He'd begun to play with the pasta in his plate with the fork. « Probably. But we'd kill everybody in our way, too, » he said, pursing his lips. He knew wolves, thus, himself, were killing machines once they were turned on the full moon. Which was why most of them were in the army, or some sort of government police force.

« Not if guided by your mentors, » Sherlock remarked. « Anyway, would you like to see the place ? I'm dying to get out of this jacket. My wing is killing me. »

« Oh, yes, of course, I'm not... really hungry anymore, » John said with a faint smile, happy to get out of there. That damned candle made him nervous. Fire.  _He_  was not scared of fire as per see, but wolves were, so he felt uncomfortable around it. Not that it mattered anyway, he'd learnt to live with it. « What happened ? » he inquired, after Sherlock spoke of his wing.

« Chemical burn, » said he with a shrug. He looked back at Angelo and nodded at him in a small goodbye before heading out to the street. He put on his long coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. « The address is 221b Baker Street. It's not far from here, about a five minute walk. »

John smiled at Angelo, hoping that the owner of the restaurant would think of him as Sherlock's  _date_. « What chemical ? » he asked, as he trailed behind Sherlock, who was walking quite too fast for him, so he'd started lagging. Five minute walk. More like run. « Can you... » he started, before gaining the strength to ask, « Just slow down a bit ? » his leg aching from the blue mark the silver pipe had left there one week before. Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes. « Government bastards, » he hissed, slowing down. Hell, he'd go flying if he could. « Of course, I apologise, » he smiled briefly letting John set their pace. « Several chemicals. You must know that most things that won't hurt wolves will hurt us. I was experimenting and our ladlady – Mrs. Hudson, she's got me a special deal, lovely lady she is – walked in and accidentally made me drop the vial. »

John sighed, relieved, when Sherlock slowed down. « I know, » John said before continuing, « We used some hydrogen peroxyde on some of the Taleban winged, » he stated, matter-of-factly again, before looking back at Sherlock who had winced at the comment, his frame shaking as he imagined the effects. « I could take a look. I mean, I was an army doctor... »


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock could almost feel the pain just by looking at hydrogen peroxyde. « It's fine, I guess. Not to worry, » but of course that was a lie. He just wasn't keen on showing how much he was hurting. He was just dying to take his clothes off, and spread his wings. He hated being confined like that. John smiled at his answer nonetheless, before looking around. Baker's Street... Left, so he turned left. « Is this Mrs. Hudson a... a... bareback ? » he asked, in order to know how to act around her is he was to meet her. Also, because he wanted a subject change. Sherlock shook his head. « No, she's like me. Her husband was a wolf, she was his mentor and my nanny... » He smiled. « She's more of a mother to me than my Mother will ever be, » he murmured to himself, not really knowing why he had made that comment. « My brother is a bareback. And so is Inspector Lestrade. Expect regular visits from both, specially the latter. »

John nodded at the comment. « Lestrade... Wasn't there something in the papers about him ? » he frowned, before looking up, gold letters on a door indicating 221b. Well, one good thing about this Mrs. Hudson having had a wolf uhsband was that at least she'd know how to act around him. Sherlock answered his question. « He consults me sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean more than it would be considered healthy for someone in the force. He's a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard, » he slid the door open and gave way to John. « Mrs. Hudson isn't home at the moment. She's at her sister's in Hexham. Your belongings are already upstairs. »

« Alrea- oh, » John started, before realising it didn't matter how his things had gotten there. There had probably been a plot or maybe Sherlock had gotten someone at the W&W to do the moving via a text, or something. « So, you've lived here a while ? » he asked, not knowing whether he should stay downstairs or walk up the stairs.

« Moved in a couple of months ago. The landlord of my last flat was... » Sherlock trailed off, placing his scarf and coat on the hanger by the door. « An acephalous idiot. »

« Oh, » John said again, before taking off his jacket as well, following Sherlock upstairs. He gazed around, noticing the antlers on the wall with headphones on, smiling at the sight of it. He noticed the silver around his windows and on the door frame, pursing his lips. He didn't like the sight of silver, as Winged didn't like certain chemicals. « It's... nice, » he said, as he noticed some of his belongings standing in the living room.

« I wasn't expecting you so soon. I meant to cover the silver on the windows and door frames with stripes of wood. I'll do that tomorrow, it's already too late... Do you mind ? » Sherlock asked with a pained look in his eyes. He needed to get his suit off as soon as possible. « Oh, no, it's okay, it's fine... It's better than jail bars anyway, » John stated. « And, please, please, » he then said, about the jacket and suit, before he went to go through the bags which had been packed by somebody else for him. He found his belongings, the wolfbane tablets he always carried with him, and thought with relief that everything else would probably be there. Sherlock urgently stripped off his suit jacket and shirt, immediately spreading his wings far and wide, almost hitting John in the process. « Sorry, » he murmured with an apologetic look. John had avoided the wing which had suddenly come toward him by ducking under it, and straightened up again afterwards, chuckling. « It's alright. »

He lolled his head back as he flapped his wings the best that he could, the raven-dark feathers shimmering in blue with the change of ligt. « Oh God, that's good, » he whispered, bringing his left wing to sight and frowning. It was bleeding now. It wasn't bleeding when he had patched it up. « Damned Angelo. »

John walked closer to Sherlock, looking at the wound. « Are you... Sure you don't want me to look ? » he asked. But, damn, Sherlock's wings were beautiful. He'd seen white ones, ginger ones, fiery ones, brown, black as ebony, but these were... really, beautiful. Matched Sherlock's hair. As wings usually did.

Sherlock frowned, looking at the wound, and then back at John. Then he gingerly nodded, lips pursed in a somewhat adorable pout. He didn't like to get hurt. It always brought up the child within. « I don't want to trouble you, » but John crossed the short distance between him and the injury in a half second, before smiling at Sherlock's expression. « You're not, I've seen much worse, » he stated as he inspected the wound. Like an acid burn. Hydrogen peroxyde would do that to you. « Should wash it clean before bandaging it with some creme of sorts, aloe vera ? » he asked.

« Mrs. Hudson gave me a pot with some ointment that she uses to her own wings. I guess I could try it out. If she uses it, it's because it's good. The thing is on the kitchen table, » he murmured, flopping down on the couch. His right wing curled over himself as a blanket, the left one stretched on the floor. It was common knowledge that when stretched out, both wings would reach twice the carrier's height. Sherlock was about 185 cm tall, which meant that both wings would reach around 370 cm. It wasn't always an advantage to be that tall.

John had gone to what he'd figured was the kitchen, and gotten the round bottle with the ointment before coming back into the living room. He studied the components and smiled, « It's good, » he stated, before looking at Sherlock. How in the whole wide world could he hide those wings under one jacket ? They were huge ! « Do you want to do it, or should I ? » he asked, putting the ointment down on the table. « Cleaning the wound, etc. » he stated, afterwards a faint smile on his lips. Not that he liked a Winged being wounded, it just made him feel needed. 3 monhts of just waking up, eating and going back to sleep had been boring.

« I can't reach it that well, » Sherlock answered, « You can probably see by the half-arsed patch, » he chuckled. « I would end up making it worse. Mrs. Hudson usually attends to my injuries, so,... » He trailed off. « Besides, you're a doctor. You can't run out of practice, » he smiled, looking at John as the man looked at his wings. « Something wrong ? »

It made John snap out of it. « No, nothing at all, it's just, your wings are  _huge_ , » he said, turning his back, walking into the kitchen. He poured some hot water from the tap onto a clean towel he found beneath the sink, and made it wet, before coming back into the living room. « Must be the biggest ones I've seen, » he continued, as if he hadn't left for 5 minutes, and bended over the wound, gently pressing down on it with the wet towel.

Sherlock's right wing started fanning himself lightly. He closed his eyes and his lips quirked in a smile. John was as gentle as Mrs. Hudson, maybe even more. « That feels really good, » he murmured, frowning. His wings were probably the most sensitive part of his body and he neglected them more than he should. Mostely because they were almost always in the way. Then, John's comment seemed to have clicked in. « Yes, too big for my liking, but it's not like I can cut them off. »

« It would be a shame to cut them off, » John said, after a few gentle strokes on the wound with the wet towel. He reached for the ointment and got enough out of the little bottle, before applying it gently with his index and his middle finger. He smiled as Sherlock seemed to compliment him. « I've patched enough wings together to know it's your most sensitive part, » John said, remembering that one time where he had been too harsh and the wing had jerket open, hitting him on the brown and opening him up. Better be safe and be gently with it. He fell back, with a look that said 'voilà' before wiping his fingers into the towel.

Sherlock smiled as he looked as his wing. He slowly stretched it, careful not to hit John. He got up, and flapped both his wings experimentally, closing his eyes. « Whatever it is, it numbs that pain. I should buy supply for a year, » he grinned widely at John, one of his rare, genuine smiles. « Thank you. »

John looked up at Sherlock, tilting his head slightly to the side. « You're welcome, » he said, before looking around, and going towards his stuff. He looked around, suddenly having thought of something. « Ehm. Is there someplace specific where I'll have to stay during the fullmoon nights ? » he asked, realising that if he had to change in the living room, he would probably tear it to pieces, silver on the windows and doors or not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now we're deep into the second Omegle log that was for genesis of this fic. There are 7 logs in total (and we never finished the story), so I have to figure out if I write it all myself or not. We'll see :))

"The flat downstairs. 221c. No one ever goes there, so I asked Mycroft to seal it with silver, in order to keep you safe inside. It's covered with wallpaper, so you won't get burns," Sherlock added. "I'm sorry it has to be this way." John nodded, "No, better be safe than sorry," he said. "I was in the wolfsquad in the army, so the wolf'll remember attacks and violence, or at least that's what they told mat W&W," he continued, as if to defend himself. "Mycroft?" he frowned. Ah, then it came back. "Your brother?"

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to nod. "Yes. He's a posh bastard and an insufferable prat. Works for the government. He /is/ the government. But he's on your side. Actually, he's one of the few helping me with the experiment," he sat back down in the couch. "Sounds nice," John joked, before rubbing his shoulders in pain, remembering the silver burns. He looked at Sherlock before taking the wolfsbane tablets and pushing one out of the aluminium package. He put it in his mouth to soothe the pain, before watching Sherlock. "So... What do you do?" he asked. If a Detective Inspector came to see him for help, he had to be important, at least on one level.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," he said proudly. That made John chuckle. "Consulting detective? What does that mean?" He raised his eyebrow.

"It means that when the police prove themselves to be idiotic, moronic and incompetent, which is always, they come to me to clean out their mess or guarantee they won't make one."

"Oh," John said again, still frowning. "But how do you help them?" he asked.

To which Sherlock answered, "I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth," he synthesised. Nodding, John smiled. "Everything?" he asked, not too convinced. "You just see things and know stuff about people?"

"How is it that I know that your injury on your left shoulder was what brought you back to London? How did I know that you didn't have a home?" Sherlock suddenly said. John bit his lower lip. "The file the W&W gave you?" he tried. He knew those things were written in the file, so Sherlock could've just read them. However...

"Oh, yes, that... it must be here somewhere. To be honest, I think I threw it in the fire after Mycroft handed it to me." John shook his head. "No, I meant, you could have read it in the file," he corrected. Sherlock sighed. "Yes, and I am telling you that if files don't have dead people in it, I will ignore it."

"Alright," John said, sceptical, before sitting down in front of Sherlock, on the little table in the living room, rubbing his shoulder. "Then, /how/ did you know?" he finally asked.

"All the time in the restaurant you kept shifting your left arm, as if it was making you uncomfortable, much in the same way as I was doing with my wing, only mine were conscious movements, adjusting to a new injury, yours were subconscious, as if you were already used to them to even notice. Which means that you've had the injury for at least a few months. So, obviously a war injury. You're a wolf. Better than that, you are a wolf who is also a doctor. The army wouldn't send you home if the injury wasn't severe – they always lack medical staff – and as far as I know, wolves only battle wolves in the battlefield. My guess – although I never guess – is that the bite shattered part of your collarbone and it lodged in the muscles. Such injury would require special attention and one you can't get out in the battlefield. Primary care made in Afghanistan. Surgery, here in London. I'd say London Bridge Hospital, more likely St Bart's," Sherlock shrugged. "It seems pretty obvious to me."

The more Sherlock said, the more John's jaw dropped. He said everything so matter-of-factly, that it was just... "Brilliant!" he called out, compltely and utterly impressed. "That was amazing!" he said, shaking his head in amazement. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. He was not expecting that reaction. Not at all. "You... amazing? You truly believe so?" Nodding, John went on, "Yes, that was the most amazing thing I have ever heard," he stated, still nodding. "Oh, that's... odd. Thank you," Sherlock smiled and cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks tinting slightly. John mirrored Sherlock's expression. "Isn't that what people usually say?" he asked, unable to retain a smile at Sherlock's reaction.

"No, they're usually not very receptive of this..." he looked away. "What I normally get for an answer is... well... 'piss off'."

Chuckling, John shook his head again. "They're morons," he stated, very, matter-of-factly. "It's brilliant. That's how you help the police then?" Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Although, I've been looking for an assistant for a couple of months but... no one seems to be too keen on being seen with the freak," he murmured quietly.

"The freak?" John repeated, surprised at the adjective. Calling Sherlock a freak was the last thing that had come to his mind.

He then stopped rubbing his shoulder and frowned. "Mind if...?" he asked, motioning taking off his shirt, in order to tend to the scars that were itching.

"Oh, please, John, you're at home now," Sherlock said, motioning at his own naked chest. "And, I'd like to take a look at it if you don't mind."

"Right," John murmured, as he pulled off his shirt, revealing his upper body. There were too many scars for him to be a Bareback, but also too many bigger ones for him to be a regular wolf. On his shoulder, reaching from the top of his arm, all the way to the base of his neck, was a large scar. Its shape left no doubt, it was a biting scar. The scar tissue had turned white with time. He had other clawing marks and bite marks, but nothing alarming, considering that he turned into a wolf once a month. He smiled shyly at Sherlock, before reaching for a wolfsbane based crème he had been asked to put on the scar.

Sherlock shook his head and walked to the kitchen, his wing hitting one of the test tubes and sending it shattering to the floor. "Bollocks!" he hissed, as he grabbed a handful of stinging nettle leaves. John jumped at the sound of glass breaking, and turned his gaze to make sure Sherlock hadn't hurt himself. The Winged couldn't feel their stings, and for the wolves it would be just a tingling sensation, but Sherlock had discovered that it's juice made miracles to wolves' skin and injuries, numbing the pain and healing from the inside out. He got near John and put a handful in his mouth, chewing it slowly before applying it to the scar. John observed everything Sherlock did, but when Sherlock put the leaves in his mouth, John frowned. "Alright," he murmured, as he waited for him to do something. The doctors had told him that he'd keep the scar forever, but that wasn't what bothered John, it was more the fact that it was so... just, visible. The scare tissue was white, not like the rest of his skin.

Sherlock brushed his fingers softly on John's marks, and applied the paste on his skin. "Ugh, that tastes nasty," he murmured with a small chuckle, as he covered the marks. According with his previous experiences, the wolves feel immediate results, a slight tingling then warmth, then located numbness, when the paste is washed off, the pain is gone for about a day or two, and the scars would start to become slightly less visible. That happened quite sometimes, and he hoped it would work with John as well, even if the wound was attended a bit later than his previous experiences.

That paste had a strange texte, but John didn't retrieve from the sensation. He closed his fists as he felt something between tingling and itching on the wound, before it softly went away. He looked at Sherlock, surprised by the effects. "You should tell the pharmaceutical world about this, it's amazing," John said, before closing his eyes, letting Sherlock's fingers do their job at applying the paste.

Sherlock smiled. "No. They would change the chemical compounds and most of the properties would be lost. Besides, the few wolves I know are acquainted with this technique. I'm sure they'll spread the word. Although it only works when it's one of us chewing it." Nodding, John chuckled. "Yeah, as usual," he stated, before opening his eyes again to look at what Sherlock was doing. "What happened to Mrs. Hudson's husband?" he suddenly asked, out of the blue, suddenly remembering the fact that he had also been a wolf.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "He attacked her. Almost killed her on a regular basis. I made sure he died a slow and painful death." He shook his head, noticing the scared look in John's eyes. "No, John. Not as a wolf. As a man."

"How? What a bastard," John said, frowning in horror, looking down. As if wolves didn't have a bad enough reputation like that, some people actually thought it would be good to act as animals whilst in human form. That, John knew, was something he would never do. "Wolves are so stupid, sometimes," John sighed. Most of the murderers, serial killers, rapists and other outlaws were usually wolves, because of the natural animal instinct they had. Which was also why they were at the bottom of the social ladder.

Sherlock shrugged. "I find them fascinating. There's an exception for everything. There are Wings that treat Wolves as if they were pets. Even in human form. They'll put a silver chain around their neck, and feed them bread and water. Sometimes, I ask myself who is the monster and who is the man." John laughed, nervous, at Sherlock's remark. "I know," he stated, "My mother had a tutor like that," he said, with a faint smile, before looking away. "That's partly why I joined the army," he finished.

Sherlock nodded. "John, if you ever feel mistreated by me, please do not hold back. Bite me in the arse if you have to," he scowled. "Well, probably not the arse, but you got the idea..."

John giggled, before smiling widely. "Yeah, I will," he said, before looking at the paste, wondering if Sherlock was done. "I should go shower it off," he then suggested.

"Not yet," Sherlock said, "Let it suck the pain. The longer is stays, the longer the effect will last."

"Okay," he said, biting his lower lip. He turned his head to look at his watch, it was close to 10 pm, and suddenly he felt tired. He closed his eyes, staying silent. "I want to see 221c afterwards," John then stated, before opening his eyes and looking straight at Sherlock. It was very important for him to know the size of the flat, or the rooms. Because it might surprise Sherlock, even though he knew he'd grow bigger on fullmoon nights, he did get incredibly big. Which had startled the military barebacks at first, but then he'd gotten the recognition on the field, and when brought home from Afghanistan, he'd been put in a cage too small for him, because the social workers hadn't believed the rapports.

Sherlock got up and fetched a bowl with lukewarm water and a clean towel. He softly started to remove the paste, gently brushing the cloth on his sensitive skin. "We can go downstairs now if you want," he muttered as he got closer and pressed his lips to the scar, taking the temperature. "Oh perfect, a little longer and it would have been too warm," he finished, cleaning up John's shoulder and put the bowl down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaaah. First furring occurs in this chapter :)

John looked away when Sherlock took care of the paste, and got up when Sherlock finished, putting his shirt back on, in order to hide all the scars. "I'm surprised they didn't know about this in the army," he stated, motioning towards the paste with his chin.

"The army is mostly populated with Barebacks. They won't go near stinging nettle. And very few Wings know about our immunity to it," Sherlock didn't bother dressing up. he picked up the key and walked down the stairs, opening the door and getting in. It had the bare minimum. An iron bed in one of the rooms and the loo was equipped with the sink and toilet alone. Nothing else. The walls were covered in a nice blue and white wallpaper. John trailed behind Sherlock, rubbing his arms nervously, before entering the room. It looked like a prison cell, but it was enough. It was  _big_  enough. He sighed, relieved, before smiling at Sherlock. Right now, in his human form, John seemed small in the room, which could easily have been a living room, but he would grow much bigger on a fullmoon's night. He nodded towards the wallpaper. "I don't think it'll stay like that forever," he joked, with a faint smile. "But it's big enough, it's perfect," he said, looking around, walking towards the loo, the bed, before turning around. He knew the measurements of his wolf size had been in the file the W&W had given Sherlock, but if his now new flatmate hadn't read the file, he'd have to discover it by himself.

"I think it will," Sherlock ripped a corner of the wallpaper, revealing the silver underneath. "Pavlov was a genius. Do you know the bell theory? If you burn yourself, you'll get the memory that when you you scratch the wall, you will get hurt, and then you'll stop doing it." John nodded, impressed. "Not bad," he stated, before looking around. It was the perfect place to stay. He'd probably try to scratch the wall, being stubborn, even after getting burnt. But that wasn't something he knew for certain. He was and wasn't the wolf, and couldn't remember anything. He just hoped the silver would do its job. He suppressed a yawn and frowned. "Oh, ehm.." He suddenly realized he didn't know where he would be sleeping. "Do I have my own room?" he asked.

"Of course," Sherlock smiled and walked out of 221c, too lazy to climb stairs and flying up instead. he took John's bags to the room upstairs and put them down by the door.

John chuckled when he saw Sherlock fly upstairs, while he climbed the stairs slowly, catching up, finding Sherlock at the top of the second set of stairs. He let out a sigh as he took a second to rest his leg. "So, I'm staying here?" he asked, noticing the bags, which answered his question. "No, you're sleeping in the bathtub, I just thought I'd put your bags here because they're pretty and make a nice decoration." Sherlock tolled his eyes, but his tone was playful.

"Pfff," John playfully said, before walking past Sherlock into the room and taking his bags with him. "It's nice," he continued, looking around. Once he'd get settled, it would be better, but it could be worse. Like 221C. He looked back at Sherlock. "Thanks," he said. "For everything." When he'd gotten up that morning, he hadn't thought he'd sleep elsewhere, not even with his tutor as flatmate. Apparently, this had been planned without him knowing, and he felt good about it. Sherlock smiled at John. "I'll be downstairs if you need me. I was planing to go for a fly, but I don't want to abuse my wing," he looked at John for a moment and smiled. "Good night, Wolf," Sherlock grinned and started to head downstairs. John smiled at Sherlock, and nodded. "Better not strain it," he commented, before greeting back. "Goodnight, /Sherlock/," closing the door to his room gently.

~ Time Lapse ~

Waking up that day had been an ache. John hadn't slept much, because of the tingling sensation in his limbs which usually came the day before the fullmoon, and even with Sherlock's potion, he hadn't been able to relax completely. He felt the outbursts of heat suddenly coming from within. It was past eight that evening, that he decided to rise from the living room. "I'm going downstairs," he stated. It had been three weeks since he'd moved in with Sherlock, and beside that one time on the first day where he'd inspected the room, he hadn't set foot in 221C. Sherlock looked up from his book and looked briefly at John, giving him a small not. "I'll check on you later," he murmured quietly, giving him a small smile. "Call me if you need me."

"Will do," John said walking downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had taken the night off, going to be with a friend of hers, so it was only them in 221. He opened the door to the room which would be his cage, and sighed. He put down a little bag with a water bottle and the potion down, and sat on the bed. He still had his watch on, so he just sat silently, waiting for time to pass. When it got close to midnight, there were always outbursts, and he would wince in pain while his eyes changed to yellow, before turning back. His body was getting ready for the change, and he could feel it. One hour went by like that, before he felt the burning sensation starting to ache while he knew the moon began to rise. He felt sweat pearl on his back, and he took of his shirt. He breathed heavily, suppressing the sudden crisis his metabolism was affected with, and soon, his vision began to flicker. He didn't even have to watch the clock. He knew exactly what time it was. He'd been changing into a wolf for too many years now to worry about the clock. "Sher-Sherlock?" he called, in between two convulsions. "You should.. C-close the door," he stated, as loud as he could, shaking, sweat dripping from all over his body. He hated this. He knew that it was a matter of ten, fifteen minutes at most, now.

Sherlock, who had been looking at the clock every five minuted had been standing the nearest to the stairs as he could. He walked down the stairs as he heard John calling his name and hurried up at his request. He hurriedly closed the door, locking it and sitting down outside, his ears closed as his wings wrapped around him like a blanket. He would check up on him once the mutation was complete, but he knew that for now it was too dangerous. He also knew that he would not leave the outside of 221c during all night.

When he heard the lock mecanism close, John finally stopped resisting, and gave in. He felt all of his senses die out at the same time, going blind, deaf, mute at the same time, feeling his heart race and sweat pouring out of him as if he was turning into water. He felt the cold tiling on the floor as he hit it with force, banging his head in the process. He felt his vocal chords break apart, tearing themselves from the bones, same going for the muscles. He felt his knees crack, and the bones break, as a wolf's backlegs bended the other way than those of a human being, and finally, he felt his jaw unalign itself with his skull, tendons and muscles stretching and tearing. He felt his teeth grow, and then, as if somebody had pulled on a magical button, he was gone, with a cry in pain, echoing on the walls of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving all the kudos's guys <3  
> Thanks a lot :)  
> It's going fast now with the posting since the first 9 chapters are already up on FF.net, but as soon as I reach 9th chapter, I'll probs be a bit slower since I have a lot of stuff going on right now. Promise I'll try to be fast though <3


	7. Chapter 7

Opening its eyes, the wolf blinked. It looked around, unaware of where it was and why the smells it was used to weren't there. There was a heartbeat nearby, he could hear it. Pacing towards the wall which led to the door, the wolf followed the silver lining until it was right behind the place the heart was strongest in its ears. With a fierce growl, it suddenly attacked the wall, trying to rip through the fabric to reach the living creature, owner of that heart. Because a heartbeat meant blood, flesh and bone to break and eat and kill.

Wincing, the giant wolf stepped back, growling from the depth of its ribcage, staring at the wall, its claws having dug up the silver and burnt its paws..

Sherlock forced himself to remain calm, his wings tightening further around himself as he heard John's agonizing cries. He had seen enough transformations to know how much they hurt, how lost they became, how hard it was for the man to transform into the beast. Sherlock silently thanked that the only pain he'd been through was when his wings broke the skin, around the time he had learnt how to walk, which was close to nine months old, so he didn't even remember. "Oh, John," he murmured to himself. He knew dogs had a sharp sense of hearing, and wolves had an even more powerful one. He wrapped his arms around his legs and closed his eyes. He was praying for the potion to work, at least partially, enough to make him recognize his voice. "I thought I would never be a mentor again," he said more firmly. "I used to tutor a little girl. Her name was Saline. She was ten when she first came to me…" he paused his words trying to listen to any noises form behind the door.

The wolf stopped growling as there came a noise from behind the wall. Through its distorted sight in black and white, the creature tried to figure out what it was. It was a voice. It knew enough to identify it as a voice. It came as a swift rumble, like thunder in the distance, but it didn't make the wolf uneasy. Usually, voices were shrieks, cries, yells. Orders being thrown, and then usually came a hit or another pair of teeth and claws to rip its skin. When the voice grew silent and all which was left was the heartbeat, the growling came back, and something like a bark came out through its teeth. Walking in circles, the wolf growled again, before deciding to attempt and break the fabric keeping it from the heart. The silver burnt its paws again, and the wolf jumped back, landing heavily on its four paws, furious. Where a gray wolf would be more than a metre and a half long, this one was about two and a half in length, without the tail, which was about 2/3 of the body. Reaching over a metre at shoulder height, the wolf was enormous. When it landed, the ground shook slightly, and the growling resumed.

Sherlock lifted the head and got closer to the door, sitting against it instead of against the wall. "I hope you're not having a party in there without me, John. It's very indelicate of you," he commented, laughing. He leaned his head back and breathed in deeply. "Be patient. It's just until dawn," he sighed. "Saline was so little, John. Even as a wolf she looked more like a cub. She was… smart. One day she came in here and I was having troubles with an experiment, and she asked why wouldn't I mix the ingredients in another order. I don't know what made me listen to her, but when I tried… It worked brilliantly." The wolf's growl lowered a level when the voice came back, but it had shifted, so the wolf went silent, trying to relocate it. It came from behind the wall which didn't look like the rest of the wall. It should burn, should it? The voice didn't seem scared. But still. Heart. Blood. Flesh. Bone. Meat. Taking a few steps back, the wolf leapt towards the door, and its claws went into the fabric, but it didn't burn as much as the wall. The door had moved in the frame, but hadn't opened, it had just bulged inwards from the sudden shock and weight leaping at it. The wolf barked again, scraping the ground with the claws, as if to dig a hole and get under the door to the heart that was beating on the other side.

"Oh, stop it, will you? I'm talking here!" Sherlock said softly with a slight hint of annoyance. "Anyway, Saline saw me as a big brother. I took her out for a walk and ice cream every weekend, and when I failed she would look at me with her big dark eyes and the next weekend I'd buy her two ice creams," he swallowed hard. "One day I forgot about the moon. I was working a triple homicide near Piccadilly and completely forgot that it was full moon day," he could feel his heart clenching in his chest. "I only remembered when I heard a howl coming from north and I ran to 221, but she was nowhere to be found. They found her three mornings after, in the woods far from here. She had been attacked by another Wolf." his heart skipped beat. "I promised I wouldn't take any charges after that."

The clawing stopped gently as the sound of the voice softened. There was a meaning behind the sound. There was something. The wolf identified it as something like a wince, or sadness. The growling became heavy breathing, and when the voice stopped, the wolf stayed silent. It took a few steps back, its tail swirling from left to right. There was something familiar with that voice, and it made the wolf feel weird. As if it wasn't a threat. Maybe it wasn't something it should eat. The wolf's breath became heavier as it sat down, staring at the door it had attacked previously, perfectly silent. The dark fur, with gold reflections moved in unison with its breathing. Where John's shoulder had been, there was a bright scar, where the fur had grown back slightly lighter colored. Ears pushed flat against its skull, the wolf barked, sneering at the door, as if to say 'come on, what are you?', expecting a challenge.

Sherlock only noticed he was crying when he glanced down at his clock and a tear dropped on the glass. Emotions. They were so unfamiliar. It had been about an hour since John was in his wolf form. "John, I miss her," he cried quietly. "She was so sweet and intelligent. And she had fire, she had spirit in her. Saline was only twelve when she died. Now tell me how it it fair?" He dealt well with emotions. He didn't know the heart's language so he suppressed everything until it all exploded. "Beasts like Hector Hudson live to beat up sweet innocent women like Martha. And young girls like Saline, who had never hurt anyone, die at my hands." And that was what haunted Sherlock the most. "If anything happens to you…" he choked in his words, closing his eyes tightly.

The voice was broken. The wolf heard it. There was something broken. Getting up from where it had sat down, the wolf pressed its muzzle against the door and scratched the tiles gently, not with the agressivity from before. It sounded like a wounded cub. But not a cub. Something wounded. Something familiar. The voice meant something. With a gentle whine, the wolf pushed slightly on the door, standing on its backfeet, resting its weight on the front feet, which were resting on the door. At full height, the wolf could stand at over two metres. Another whine came through, gently, as if it was trying to console a cub.

Sherlock heard the sounds from inside and he hesitantly got up. "I would never hurt you, John. I can't cock things up twice in a row. That's why I have the place all silvered up. I'm sorry…" he placed one hand fully on the door, knowing that it was madness his desire to get in the room and look at wolf John. He knew it was reckless and he knew it was dangerous. But he hoped that he would recognise him enough not to eat him. "I am going to do whatever is in my power for you not to end up like Saline. I promise. I can't fail you too…" he leaned his head towards the door, his voice small and fragile. He had never felt this vulnerable. "If I go in… please don't eat me. Please. I don't want to hurt you I just… I need to see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and reviews/comments are appreciated <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this keeps taking so long between updates, I'm truly doing my best !
> 
> Don't be afraid to come nudging at my inbox on tumblr (same url as here) to remind me to update this fic, since it sometimes slips my mind! :)

The heart grew closer to the wolf's ears, and the voice as well. The wolf whined again, gently, as if it understood. It didn't know why the voice was broken and sad, but it understood sadness enough to not like it. Pushing back on its forefeet, the wolf landed on all fours again before pacing from left to right, head hanging lower, as if to try and see through the small gap between wall and tiles.

Sherlock heard the wolf moving away from the door and he sighed heavily. "John, I'm coming in okay?" he spoke, softly, trying to keep his voice steady. He twisted the key and slowly opened the door, peering inside and locating John immediately. He knew he was big, but he never thought he would be /that/ big. Somehow it didn't frighten him. Much the contrary, it made him feel oddly safe.

For the wolf, there were sounds. There were odd sounds, and a subtle growl came from the depth of the wolf's ribcage, before it ceased, when the door opened and a figure came in. Eyeing the figure, the wolf sneered, showing its teeth, as a way to intimidate the newcomer.

Sherlock looked down, knowing that when looked in the eyes by a stranger, a wolf would take it as a threat and most likely attack. So he kept his head low and his wings tucked in, again, trying not to show any sign of threat. He wanted him to know that Sherlock was a friend. Not a foe. "Hey John," he said lightly, closing the door behind him, looking at the wolf's huge paws.

The yellow eyes flickered from the figure to the wings, and there came a growl while its tongue came through its teeth, trying to intimidate the figure. Wings. The wolf hated the wings. The wings were like birds. And they came from the sky, dropping silver on it. The claws scratched the floor until the voice came again. Unmuffled by the door in between, it rang crystal clear in the wolf's ears, and the sneer disappeared. Ears still flat against its skull, the wolf took a step forward, trying to identify the figure. There was something familiar. But what?

Sherlock leaned towards the door and wiped away his tears. "You really are big, aren't you?" he chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes. "You remind me of her in some ways," he looked up, his sad eyes meeting John's for a brief moment. When the figure raised its hands to wipe away the tears, the wolf sneered again, ready to jump if it proved to be a threat. Staying those few feet away from the figure, the wolf could heart the heart, the lungs, the words. Everything. Sharp senses.

"You have the same kindness in your eyes, the same gentle touch… She liked to stroke my wings. She said that she wanted to be a wolf with wings," he smiled again. The wolf finally decided to take a step closer to the figure, ears flat across its skull, weary and ready to bite or jump back at the slightest sign of attack or danger. There was a smell on the figure, a familiar smell. One which was in the room as well, on the bed. Near the bottle too. On the shirt, on the floor, too. Maybe it was a sign. If the figure had the same scent on him, it could only be a sign. Sherlock would take a step back when the wolf stepped towards him, but the door wouldn't allow him. He looked in John's eyes and spoke softly. "Come on. Back up a little. I might feel a bit safer with you, but that doesn't mean I am a complete idiot. Then again, Maybe I am. I'm in a room talking to a hungry Wolf that only has to jump on me and break my neck and have his jolly tasty meal of the month," he looked down at his feet and hesitantly held his hand up towards him. Sherlock was almost giving himself on a silver platter! Was he that desperate to die? He looked up again and his wings flinched slightly. And then he knew this had all been a mistake.

When the figure's eyes locked on those of the wolf, the growl came back. Softly, but it stayed present. Then the eyes went down, the growling ceased. The voice didn't seem broken nor sad now. The wolf stopped coming closer, its eyes judging the figure. Thinking. The wolf was trying to figure out whether or not to leave the figure alone. When suddenly one of the wings flinched, startling the wolf, which acted out of instinct. Its jaws closed on the hand held out and ripped at it violently before opening up again, feeling the blood on its tongue, growling, sneering, and barking. Frontleg spread, inhaling in order to make itself look bigger, the wolf sneered, showing its teeth, before snapping at the figure again, trying to catch something with its teeth, going for one of the wings, jumping on it, its paws landing on the wall, catching itself, claws gripping through the wallpaper revealing the silver which suddenly burnt the skin again, making the wolf retreat, furious, with its teeth bloodied.

Sherlock was too startled to scream. The pain shooting him as he fell to the floor. And then his wing was the target. The pain shot through all of his body before the Wolf growled in agony. /Silver/, he thought, as he squirmed on the floor. He knew his end was there and then when a big paw hit him right across the cheek and upper arm, knocking him unconscious, with the words /I'm sorry I failed you too/, spinning around in his head. His injured wing draped over his body, covering him completely.

Growling, aggressive, the wolf began to pace around the figure which had covered itself with the wing. It had stopped moving. There was something wrong. He wasn't dead. But he wasn't supposed to /not/ move. Shaking its head, its mane like fur making it seem bigger, the wolf walked towards the figure and caught a few of the feather between its teeth, trying to pull the wing from the body. The scent was all over the figure. It was awkward. Stepping on the wing without care, the wolf reached the figure's head, one of its paws resting on the figures chest. There was blood. But it tasted.. bitter. The wolf didn't like it. It was acid. Bitter. It didn't like it. Pushing with its muzzle, the wolf tried to move the figure's face, and jumped back, in case there was a reaction. When nothing came, the wolf sat down, and stared for a few seconds, before bending its neck and letting out a howl. The first one, that night.

Sherlock was stuck in a limbo of an almost dream. Images haunting him, hands holding out to him and his dazed mind refusing to wake. He laid limp on the floor of 221c, vaguely feeling the wolf's attempts to wake him. In the limbo he was stuck in he could only hear the pain on billions of souls, screams that made his weak heart ache and his breathing become even more shallow. He wasn't sure of how long he spent in there, as his breath nearly left him but never really did. He was in hell, for sure. And then Saline's face appeared in front of his eyes. He was definitely dead now, absolutely for sure. How could he be seeing her so clearly? Her face deformed by the bigger wolf's attack, her dark caramel skin livid, her warm eyes cold as ice. It felt like years. Not knowing if he was dead or just sleeping or what. Not knowing was always a mystery to Sherlock. But truth was that his body didn't move for the rest of the night.

After the howl, the figure didn't move. It didn't move at all. The wolf tried to pull on one of the wings, like a cub would a toy. It tried to pull on the fabric, the clothes. It tried to pull the other wing. Stomping on the figure. When nothing seemed to work, it began to howl, louder. There was a response, somewhere. Then, there came noises. Other noises. Another voice, this time feminine. Old. Growling, the wolf stopped its howls, and stared at the door, hearing muffled voices. There was another masculine voice. /Sherlock's not here, there's something wrong/ it went, but the wolf couldn't understand it. There came footsteps, and then the door moved. Growling, suddenly defensive, the wolf stood on Sherlock's body, its paws on the detective's chest, trying to look as big as possible, sneering at the possible threat which would come through the door. The wolf wouldn't recognize the figure which came in, but it was Lestrade. He'd brought Mrs. Hudson home, and when Sherlock hadn't been in the flat, he'd decided to check on 221C. Upon seeing the wolf guarding, what he understood, as its prey, the Detective Inspector walked out the door, and after a few minutes, returned. The wolf had pulled Sherlock's body further into the room, in order to stand between it and the foreigner, as if to protect it. But, suddenly, there came a pain on its shoulder. Dizziness. Drowsiness. Stumbling, the wolf sneered at the stranger, and tried to catch him, to rip him to pieces. But its feet failed it, and it fell down, unable to move. There was a silver dart in its shoulder, and suddenly, there were other figures in the room. But that didn't matter. For the wolf collapsed almost immediatly, giving up every single strength left in its body to protect the detective at his feet.

Mrs Hudson got in the room behind them and made way. It was a Winged instinct to protect a Wolf. She screamed at them to stop and tried to pulled them away from the room. When none of them listened, her light-brown wings spread wide and she flapped them at the others screaming to leave her house immediately. Lestrade and the others eventually obliged and slowly made their way out of 221. Mrs Hudson promised the inspector that she would call him in the morning and give them information upon the boys. She knew that although John hadn't been in the 'pack' for long, people were generally fond of him. She did her best to take John's large body out of Sherlock's and she carefully examined the dart wound. Of course it was silver. "Those idiotic imbeciles," she hissed as she carefully removed the dart and threw it aside, stopping the bleeding with a large bed sheet. Then her attentions turned to Sherlock and she thought he was dead. But her feathers could still feel warmth irradiating from his body. If he kept losing blood like that it surely wouldn't be for long.

As the day dawned, she manages to lie John's now human body on the bed in 221c and Sherlock on her own bed, her old wings doing most of the work. Mrs Hudson had attended to John's wound and patched it up carefully, but most of her time was spent on Sherlock. She suspected several broken ribs, his wrist was shattered and his wings… it pained her to look at his wings, once so shiny, and strong, now all bloodied and possibly broken. She silently told him off for being so reckless, but she knew the call and the need that a Winged felt towards their charge. Sherlock looked incredibly broken, his cheek badly scratched and his arm equally injured. She closed the door to the room and let him rest as he turned back to 221c where she could see John's human figure laying down on the bed. He should be exhausted. She sat down and continued to clean his shoulder, softly applying the stinging nettle directly on the open wound. It would heal faster that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it ♥
> 
> Reviews and/or comments are loved <3


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